better than so many
by takingoffmyshoes
Summary: not long after returning to castle araluen, horace receives an invitation to conduct a few weeks of coursework at the seacliff fief battle school. naturally, he accepts. (in which heteronormativity is bullshit and none of the squad have time for it)


When Horace returns to Castle Araluen, the sudden onslaught of formality feels almost alien. He soon reacclimates, but it's a jarring change to go from the easy egalitarian camaraderie of the past couple of months to the rigid hierarchy and ceremony of courtly life, and he can't help but feel a little nostalgia. He loves life at the castle, loves being a knight, loves being right at the beating heart of the kingdom, but there's something about sleeping rough, getting in a few fights, and pulling off one or two ridiculous stunts that reminds him of the simpler times of the past.

There's plenty to enjoy here, though, and he makes the most of it while he readjusts.

It's Princess Cassandra who formally receives him with her father and hears his official report in one of the smaller antechambers off the great hall, Cassie who later greets him at dinner and waves him to the seat across from her so she can pepper him with questions, and Evanlyn who slips into his chambers an hour afterwards and gets the real story out of him.

She performs her role as princess as well as ever, and is growing into the position just as Horace is growing into his own as a knight, but he knows she chafes under its restrictions all the same. Cassandra is a poised, elegant diplomat with a serene and noble visage that can charm and threaten with equal skill. Evanlyn, on the other hand, is hardy and strong, quick to grin widely and laugh loudly, and getting handier with weapons all the time. As Evanlyn, she dresses more simply and exists more honestly. As much as Horace likes and respects Cassandra, Evanlyn had been the one to join them in battle, and it's that side of her that he feels the strongest connection with. They're brothers in arms, and he's yet to find a stronger sort of bond with anyone.

"What happened to your hand?" Evanlyn asks now, gesturing to the thin bandage around his wrist. She's sitting cross-legged on his bed while he goes through the evening ritual of cleaning and polishing his weapons at the table off to the side.

"Oh, it's nothing much," he says, looking up from his sword to glance at it. "I probably don't even need the bandage on it anymore. Just a scratch."

Evanlyn sighs, put-upon. "I think that's probably the worst habit you've picked up from Will," she says. "If I had a royal for every time one of you idiots misused the word 'fine,' I could probably buy Ragnak's chandelier."

Horace grins. "Erak would probably pay you to take it," he points out, and she chuckles.

"That wasn't the best example," she agrees, "but you know what I mean. How bad was it really?"

He shrugs, and lifts the sword to examine the blade in a different light. He thought he'd seen a nick, but it was just a streak of the polishing compound, so he buffs it out. "Bled a bit at first, but it didn't do any real damage. Worst injury on our side was Trobar, and even he was well on the way to healing by the time we left."

"I'm glad," she says. Horace had told her and her father all about the motley group they'd ended up with, and both had shown sympathy and respect for Malcolm's community of outcasts, exiled and reviled for their differences. "It was good of Will to leave the dog with him," she adds. "Not that I'm surprised, of course."

"Stubborn, self-sacrificing moron," he agrees, then examines the blade one more time and decides it's good enough for now. The kingdom is slowly crawling out of winter, but the nights still come early and he's had a long day. He slides the sword into its scabbard, wraps the belt around it, and lays it on the table. When he looks back up at Evanlyn, she's grinning again, something impish in the corners of it.

"What?" he demands, but the smile only grows. Despite himself, he feels his cheeks start to redden.

"So," she says brightly. "Will."

He throws the chair cushion at her, and she catches it easily before pelting it back at him in a two-handed overhead throw that has him stepping back with the impact.

"You've been throwing axes," he accuses.

"So what if I have? You're avoiding the question."

He sighs, drops the cushion back to the chair, and flops across the foot of the bed. "Will's good," he says, muffled in the mattress.

"Just good?" Evanlyn asked innocently, and Horace rolls onto his back to give her a wicked grin of his own.

"He's _excellent_."

For all his grumbling at the time, the short while spent in their sentry post, waiting for the Scotti to appear, had been delightful. He hadn't been sure the two of them would ever be able to get away on their own, so even the cramped tent under its canvas shelter had been a gift. It had just been a night, and a night broken up into watch shifts at that, but they'd made do.

Evanlyn brings her forearm up, and he raises his own to knock against it with a solid 'thud.' She's always been an enthusiastic supporter of their relationship, ill-defined as it may be. They each have their own sort of bond with the other two – Will and Horace, Horace and Evanlyn, Evanlyn and Will – and (as far as he can tell) they're all happy with what they've got.

"He misses you," Horace adds, letting his arm drop. "Wanted to know how you were doing, what you'd been up to. We should get him out here to visit at some point."

"We should," she agrees. "I miss him, too. How did he seem?" There's no innuendo in the question now, and the grin has slipped away.

"He's good," he says again, matching her timbre. "There was a difficult moment when Malcolm wanted to give him warmweed salve for a cut, but he held up."

Evanlyn winces, just a bit. Evanlyn, like Horace, knows more than most how much Will had struggled in the aftermath of their time in Skandia. It had taken his body a long time to heal, and his mind even longer – and as Horace had seen evidenced in those long moments in Malcolm's cottage, certain things could still send him reeling as if Skandia had been months ago rather than years. Warmweed, of course, was one; the scars on his back and chest were another. Cold weather – particularly snow – had been one in the past, but Horace hadn't seen any sign of it at Macindaw. That doesn't mean it wasn't there, of course, but there's nothing to be gained by dwelling on that now.

Evanlyn hasn't had as much opportunity as Horace to see Will over the past few years, but even she's seen the occasional fleeting sign that Will isn't quite as cheerfully normal as he'd like them to think.

"It must have been," she says, breaking into his thoughts. "Difficult, I mean. With Malcolm. How did he – Malcolm – take it?"

He shrugs. "As well as you'd expect from a healer of his calibre. Just gave him another salve and told him what to do with it, then never mentioned it again."

"That's good, at least," Evanlyn says softly. Then, abruptly, she slaps the mattress beside her, up by the head of the bed. "Get up here, would you? You're making _my_ neck sore with all that craning."

He smiles easily at the invitation and shifts up to sit next to her, half reclining against the pillows and giving a small, happy sigh as he does so. They're quiet for a little while, watching the play of the firelight against the stone walls and their richly woven hangings.

"So," Horace says finally. "Axe throwing, huh?"

* * *

A few weeks later, he goes to Redmont for one of his routine training visits. He spends the mornings and early afternoons working with the battleschool apprentices, introducing drills for the younger students and teaching more advanced combat tactics to the more experienced ones, then trains with Sir Rodney for the rest of the day. Despite his rank and natural skill, there's still much to learn, and his training sessions leave him sore and exhausted but fairly glowing with the new ideas and possibilities introduced to him.

Then, one evening, shortly before he's set to return to Castle Araluen, Alyss asks him to dinner. He agrees readily, glad for the chance to catch up with her. He'd not had as much time as Will had, and even after their long, leisurely ride back south, delaying separation until the last possible minute, he still feels behind on the news from Redmont and her hijinks elsewhere.

He says as much at dinner, and she fixes him with what Horace still thinks of as the diplomatic stink eye. It's a look that says, very politely but in no uncertain terms, that he had better get back to minding his own business in a hurry if he doesn't want something deeply unpleasant to happen to him. Lady Pauline had cowed him with it when he was growing up in the Ward, and Alyss had begun emulating it long before she'd been accepted as Pauline's apprentice. Now, it's a finely honed and nearly lethal force.

Despite himself, he can't help but squirm a bit, wondering if he's just seriously offended her somehow.

"Couriers don't engage in hijinks," she says icily, and manages to hold the expression for a few more seconds before dissolving into silent but shoulder-shaking laughter. "Sorry," she says breathily, waving a hand vaguely in apology, "but your _face—_"

Horace shakes his head ruefully, and can't keep his own smile away. "What would you call 'Lady Gwendolyn' then?" he challenges. He'd heard _all_ about her, mostly in the form of Will's gleeful mockeries of her high, snooty voice and over-the-top mannerisms, but it had only left Horace wanting more. Somehow, it feels like being let in on a trade secret: for all the Diplomatic Corps presents an image of sophistication and rigid rule-following, apparently this sort of subterfuge is all too common.

Alyss shakes her head, lips still firmly pressed shut against the laughter trying to spill out. "Her _hats_," is all she manages to get out, then puts her face in her hand and snorts.

Horace finds himself laughing along with her, simply because. Alyss has always had a robust sense of humor, and it's infectious when she lets it off the rein like this. As tiring, irritating, and stressful as he knows it must have been for her, he can't help but imagine the role as a caricature of itself, Alyss gliding along in ridiculous garments with her nose in the air and her voice a querulous falsetto. And here, safely back in the comfort of Redmont castle, she seems to be remembering it that way as well.

Good for her, he thinks. Alyss had faced a great deal of strain and a great deal of guilt and self-loathing as a result, and if she's been able to put that far enough behind her to look back on the experience and laugh, then that's all for the better.

Dinner is a lighthearted affair, and it's not until they've retired from the table and sought more comfortable seating for a final glass of wine that Alyss brings up anything serious.

"Will said something to me," she tells him, "something that pulled me out of Keren's grasp. I think I know what it was, but I'd like to be sure."

"I think you're probably right," he says at length, "but I think you should ask him. It's not my place to say."

Alyss nods, as though she'd expected as much. She probably had. She cocks her head, then, and looks at him. "You and Will," she starts, then stops.

"Me and Will," Horace repeats calmly.

"Should I...not?" she asks, in an unusual show of uncertainty.

Horace shakes his head quickly. "You absolutely should," he tells her, "unless knowing this makes you not want to."

She blinks, parsing that. "So you don't mind?"

He shrugs. "It's not mine to mind," he says simply. "What happens between you and him is between you and him. But," he adds, a bit more pointedly, "what happens between me and him is between me and him."

Alyss nods thoughtfully. "For what it's worth," she says after a bit, "it doesn't surprise me that you both have hearts big enough to share." Then she smiles warmly. "But it's nice to have it confirmed."

* * *

They part reluctantly the next day, both feeling that they've been brought closer by the understanding they'd reached. Alyss, at Horace's encouragement, had agreed to write a letter to Will and lay it all out for him, so there'd be no more room for the two of them to dance around the point. Horace, for his part, turns back to Castle Araluen with the satisfaction of a good week's work.

When he arrives, he finds a letter from Will waiting, asking him if he'd be willing to spend some time in Seacliff spreading his abundance of talent among the battleschool students there. Not in so many words, but still.

_My, I've gotten popular,_ he writes back. _Give a man a week or two to settle in, would you? I'd be delighted to, of course, but can't yet say for sure when. I'll let you know once I have a better idea of what'll be going on here in the next few months. If Nils and Gundar get to you before I do, tell them hello from me. Evanlyn wants to see you soon, and I wouldn't risk refusing: she can throw an axe about as well as any Skandian, now. _

_Horace._

He considers sending it by message pigeon, then decides that the mail will do just as well. It's not exactly urgent, and besides, getting the letter there faster won't get _him_ to Seacliff any sooner.

It's going to be a busy couple of months.


End file.
